


Whatever You Wish For

by skoosiepants



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-27
Updated: 2006-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t very good at following the text.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Wish For

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a bastardized version of Cinderella, but Cinderella is totally boring, people, so it went wildly askew. Title is from ‘A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes,’ because I’m cheesy like that. Massive thanks to devildoll for the awesomely rigorous edits and for not minding beta’ing this time after time. Sadly, there are no dragons.

**I**  
  
Once, there was a boy.   
  
A boy with dark, messy hair and pretty hazel eyes, and a charming, lazy smile that he’d inherited from his father – although his father had died well before he was even born, and his stepfather had never appreciated the many fine attributes handed down to him through Sheppard genes.  
  
John lived in the kingdom of Atlantis, in a modest house with his mother - and his stepfather, after she’d remarried when he was six, and his two snotty stepbrothers, too, and even though they tried their very best to make his life a living misery, they couldn’t quite succeed.   
  
They couldn’t succeed, because his mother openly adored him, would smooth his determined cowlick with her soft, warm palm and would press fond kisses onto his forehead - and when she passed on, years later, it was the absolute worst day of John’s young life.  
  
He didn’t let it show, of course, since he was already twelve and nearly a man and his stepfather had always taken every opportunity to exploit any perceived weaknesses. Instead, he bucked up under the weight of his grief and smiled even slower, practicing a fluid, insolent slouch, and let only his eyes say how much he loathed Acastus Kolya and his demon spawn - Ladon and Cowen, who were mean-spirited and spiteful and _spoiled_ , and all of John’s hate was returned in spades, only they were much more vocal about it.   
  
Their modest house was on the outskirts of the village shadowed by the royal Atlantean palace, and in the whole village, John only had one true friend.   
  
Oh, there were other boys he played with, like Aiden and Evan and Davy and Carson, and he was certainly _well-liked_ , but he wasn’t very good at letting people get close. Only Rodney, his _best_ friend, had managed to bluster his way past all John’s casual walls.  
  
Rodney had shown up nearly a month after John’s mother had been buried – in the little plot behind their house, next to his father, and John was a least grateful to Kolya for that – and he sometimes talked faster than John could follow, hands sharp with movements, energy practically humming off his pale skin. He’d seemed baffled, mainly, by John’s silent resentment, and set about turning John’s entire world upside-down.  
  
They were of like age, and he had a mass of loose golden-brown curls and the bluest eyes John had ever seen, and he made messes _everywhere_. He’d trash their kitchen, intent on making sandwiches or soup or cookies, and John suffered through more than one unexplainable explosion in various parts of the long expanse of wooded yard, and it took John, embarrassingly enough, over a year of being punished for things he didn’t do – petty and demeaning punishments that never stung very much, since there was only one person left in John’s life who could actually hurt him _emotionally_ , and Kolya was too much of a coward to dole out anything physical - to realize that no one else could actually _see_ Rodney. He thought he was a little old to have an imaginary friend.  
  
“Are you kidding me? I’m not _imaginary_ ,” Rodney sniped, rolling his eyes, “I’m... Canadian.”  
  
He looked shifty, though, and John asked warily, “What does that mean?”  
  
Rodney tilted his head up haughtily. “It means I’m not from _here_. I’m from, you know,” he hedged a bit, “Canada.”  
  
“Canada,” John echoed slowly.   
  
“Yes, right, Canada,” Rodney nodded, but John was pretty sure he was lying. He wasn’t very good at it.  
  
But he shrugged – where the heck was Canada, anyway? – and at some point he got tired of being blamed for Rodney’s faults, and started making his own trouble.   
  
*  
  
Rodney always seemed to be on hand to bail John out of scrapes – albeit grudgingly, and with constant complaint – and he showed up whenever John needed him, and sometimes whenever John wanted desperately to be alone, and. Well, generally speaking, he was kind of a pain in the ass.  
  
Secretly, though, John thought he’d be lost without him.  
  
*  
  
At thirteen, Rodney showed John how to set a shepherd’s pie to explode in Cowen’s face, then taught him how to pick locks and wind back all the timepieces and get the cranky old rooster to crow at three a.m.   
  
*  
  
At fourteen, Rodney taught John how to do everything better.  
  
*  
  
When John was fifteen, Cowen, bigger and meaner and older, pushed him into the river that cut a jagged swath through the middle of the valley, wide and deep and fast where it edged the village, and John gulped so much water he knew he’d drown. His vision went hazy and his lungs flooded and he tumbled under, pulled down by the current.  
  
He didn’t drown, though.   
  
He woke up with Rodney’s hand wrapped around his wrist, another grasping a fistful of his sopping shirt, all relieved blue eyes and wet, straggling curls and a long-winded rant that John only caught snippets of while he breathed in dry air, feeling his chest expand and contract all the way down to his toes.  
  
He grinned, then, a choked laugh at his lips, and Rodney broke off after “—complete _moron_ ,” and swallowed and blinked and then looked away.  
  
*  
  
When John was fifteen, Rodney disappeared.  
  
Just... turned and left.  
  
*  
  
John tried to tell himself he didn’t care, that he could have fun with Evan and Aiden and Davy and Carson, and that Rodney hadn’t even been _real_ , anyway, not in any true sense. And he didn’t cry, and he didn’t miss him.  
  
It took nearly three months for John to finally realize Rodney wasn’t coming back.  
  
*  
  
 **II**  
  
John never felt he was meant for greater things.   
  
He was content, for the most part, taking the tongue lashings from Kolya in stride – the man had long since stopped trying to foist menial labor on him, given that hardly anything ruffled John’s easy demeanor, and more often than not John would make sure _something_ went wrong. He was living virtually as a servant in his own house, yes, but he spent most of the day out in the sprawling fields of Atlantis, the castle with its spires and angles of glass and metal shining in the distance, the sun warm on his face.  
  
One morning he heard pounding hooves approaching, and John tilted his head towards the woods, scanning the tree line. It wouldn’t be Carson or Davy, since they didn’t have horses, and Aiden and Evan were off at the castle, training for the royal guard.  
  
Buttercup, his mare, munched contentedly on the long-stemmed sweet grass that grew in shady clumps at the base of an old oak, pretending to ignore him. She was technically Ladon’s, but the high-strung chestnut refused to let the other boy near her, and John got a thrill out of galloping her across the long length of road that ran through the village, burying his face close to her neck, urging with soft words and firm heels for her to go faster, stretch her legs out farther, until he imagined they were blurs of red dust against the trees.  
  
A massive gray horse broke out of the woods, head high in an easy, smug trot.  
  
The person perched on its back was small in comparison, thin, with brown trousers and a loose shirt and a brown cap, and when the animal drew closer – even Buttercup jerked her head up, nose tasting the air – John could see that the person was most definitely female. Strands of long, dark hair slipped down her neck and her cheeks were flushed and she smiled at John, breathless, as she pulled to a stop.  
  
“Hello,” she said. Her fingers were light on the reins, nails cut short, skin pale against the leather pommel. Her lips were red, small mouth curling up, and her eyes were dark and friendly and confident.  
  
John thought she was beautiful.  
  
*  
  
Elizabeth actually wasn’t very small.   
  
She was young, though, body boyish in peasant linens, and she was quick to follow John, to climb trees and race over fields, and John showed her how to hide behind the low garden wall, slinging balls of mud at Cowen and Ladon, how to make a mess of the kitchens and slip salt into the wine, and, once, how to get the cranky old rooster to crow at three a.m.  
  
At times, though, when the afternoon sun cut sharp and white across her face, John could see the distance between them, could see the natural arrogance in the tilt of her head, the highborn grace she seemed desperate to hide.   
  
The dirt under her nails, smudging her forehead, chin, only served to highlight the fact she was a queen.  
  
*  
  
John adored Elizabeth. He respected her, trusted her, which caught him kind of by surprise, since he could count on his one hand the number of times she hadn’t lied to him.  
  
He even loved her, in his own way, and he was fairly sure she loved him, too. In her own way.  
  
She loved the land more than anything, though, loved _Atlantis_ , even in her lies. The castle, fixed and distant, a surreal, untouchable backdrop to John’s childhood, drew her eyes like a beacon. Her constant. Her home.  
  
*  
  
One day, when he was eighteen and restless with something he couldn’t quite define – Buttercup could feel it, too, stamping the ground heavily, even winded from a run - Elizabeth disappeared.  
  
Just... turned and left. Like Rodney.  
  
John knew where he could find her, though, and that wasn’t like Rodney at all.  
  
*  
  
 **III**  
  
The spring of his eighteenth year passed into the summer of his nineteenth, and Davy grew sunflowers in the back garden. Huge sunflowers, taller than John, petals yellow-orange and centers so dark a brown they seemed black. Their heads bowed under the moonlight, and their thick stems flexed as they slowly followed the path of the sun during the day.  
  
Just a year younger, Evan lurked around the house more for Lindsay, the cook’s daughter, than for John or Davy. His hair was shorn and his buttons were shiny, but he still smiled more than anyone John ever knew. Save Aiden, maybe.  
  
Although Aiden had absolutely no tact and a bit of a temper, and he and Carson spent more time pissed off at each other than being friends. Which meant Carson was hiding in the sunflowers with Davy and Davy’s little cousin, Katie, when Evan and Aiden came around, bearing an invitation from the royal palace and the rumor attached.  
  
The rumor, John had already heard, spreading fast throughout the village: a masked ball at the castle with the entire kingdom invited, and the princess would choose her consort from the masses.  
  
John tended to think most of it was bull.   
  
Cowen and Ladon were nearly giddy with excitement, though - Ladon had grinned his small, self-satisfied grin and Cowen had smirked and ordered John to get his best suit ready; until he realized John would likely just toss it into the kitchen hearth and laugh.  
  
Kolya had benevolently told John he could go as well. If he could find something suitable to wear.  
  
John wasn’t so sure he wanted to go, anyway, even if he had a decent outfit, and sort of grimaced at Aiden when the guard-in-training handed him a personalized invitation, the princess’ own seal pressed into the blue-green wax. “I doubt I’m going to make it,” he said, half-apologetically.  
  
Aiden stared at John, opening and closing his mouth dumbly, before blurting out, “But. It’s the biggest party of the year. You,” he floundered, “you _can’t_ not go!”  
  
John lounged back on the warm grass, breathing in the broken, earthy scent, his skin itching, feeling too tight and too hot, and yeah. He really didn’t want to go. “It’s cool.” He forced a grin. “I don’t really like crowds.”  
  
Evan, decked out in Atlantis blue, sword looped at his belt with silver braids, kicked at his feet. “Man, seriously?”  
  
“The castle’s amazing, Shep,” Aiden pointed out, face eager and animated, body nearly vibrating with excitement. “And _Princess Elizabeth_.” He dangled the name expectantly, and Evan, standing just behind him, pulled a face and rolled his eyes in good-natured fun.  
  
John just shrugged, though, and ran his fingers over the heavy cream envelope, turning it over in his hands. And when he broke the seal, two words were scrawled underneath the front flap: _please come_.  
  
*  
  
The room at the bottom of the back staircase, just off to the right, was small. Small and spare with a narrow bed and a narrower closet, and a single high window that never managed to catch morning or afternoon sun.  
  
In the very back of the narrow closet, John kept his mother’s books and hair ribbons in an old leather trunk, and in the bottom of the trunk, under a pair of petite crystal slippers, was the fine black suit his father wore the day he married her.  
  
Holding his breath, John carefully pulled out the jacket, fabric soft against the slide of his fingers, the spun silk shirt, the trousers and leather shoes. It wasn’t anything fancy, and he knew he’d be far less fashionable than everyone else, ridiculously underdressed, but he just couldn’t ignore a direct plea, and there was very little John wouldn’t do for the princess.  
  
Ladon’s brown tabby, a huge furry tomcat with a flat face and three-fourths of his tail missing – hilariously named Mr. Fluffy – stared down at him from the top closet shelf, amber eyes glowing green in the half-light.   
  
“Hey, big guy,” John said, straightening up. “Paws off, all right?” He draped the suit carefully across his bed, thumb smoothing wrinkles and wondering how he could wheedle Lindsay into ironing it for him.   
  
Mr. Fluffy jumped down, sleek and silent for his size, and padded over, blinking solemnly. He had a throaty, short meow that almost sounded like a grunt, and John sighed, hands on his hips.  
  
“Yeah, not great,” he agreed, “but it’ll have to do.”  
  
*  
  
On the appointed afternoon, John leaned a tall, tarnished mirror against his open closet door and donned his father’s suit, watching piece by piece, the fine cloth a subtle armor.  
  
“Where do you think you’re going in that, Sheppard?”  
  
John caught Cowen’s glare in the mirror. He had on ridiculously tight pants. Ladon was just behind him, hair teased high and curling over his ears like a helmet.  
  
“The ball,” John answered blandly, lips twitching, trying very hard not to laugh. Laughing would be bad.  
  
Cowen narrowed his eyes. “Father only said you could go if you found something _proper_ to wear.”  
  
“They were all out of pastels,” John deadpanned, because, seriously, lilac was not Cowen’s color. And was Ladon wearing _rouge_?  
  
John tugged on his sleeves, eyes wandering over his reflection. It was a little too old-fashioned, coattails down past his thighs, shirt collar high and stiff, but it wasn’t bad. Or _embarrassing_. He flashed a glance at his stepbrothers, still hovering in the doorway, looking constipated.  
  
And then Cowen got a glint in his eye. The glint that usually meant John was getting thrown in the river.  
  
“Ladon, get Lindsay’s scissors,” he tossed over his shoulder, then grinned sharply at John. “It just needs a few alterations, Sheppard, and it’ll be perfect.”  
  
*  
  
 **IV**  
  
John Sheppard’s story, his happily-ever-after, had been written well before he was born. It was filled with love and rebellion and drama and greatness. It was filled with anger and passion and glory and, yes, _more love_.  
  
Rodney found, though, that John wasn’t very good at following the text.  
  
*  
  
“I thought I taught you how to open a simple lock and chain,” Rodney groused, arms crossed, glaring down at John who was slumped pitifully in the corner of the cellar, and Rodney had _no time_ to buoy the boy’s spirits.  
  
John’s head snapped up. “Rodney? How...?” His gaze roved Rodney’s face, body, eyes flashing confusion and delight, something desperate before leaching dull again and dropping to the side. He scrubbed his mouth with the flat of his hand, then asked thickly, “Why are you here?”  
  
“I.” Rodney paused, because what he _wanted_ to say - that he’d never left, that he’d never leave him, not really – wasn’t part of the rules, and wouldn’t help anyway. “I’m here to get you to the ball,” he said instead, his words gruff and pinched.   
  
“Well, that’s great,” John drawled sardonically. “I don’t want to go.”  
  
“Too bad.”  
  
John snorted, shifted so his arms were dangling over his upraised knees. “Yeah.”  
  
“No,” Rodney clarified, “too bad for _you_.” He stepped forward, curling his hand around John’s arm, urging him to his feet. “Get up, get up, are you sitting in dirt? Were you raised in a barn? Your mother—”  
  
“Don’t,” John bit out, twisting his arm away. “Just... don’t.”  
  
Rodney let out a deep breath, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest. “You’re going.”  
  
“Am not,” John countered petulantly, and Rodney did a little dance inside, because John being petulant was one step away from John giving in. And then he turned sad, sad, so very sad hazel eyes on Rodney and asked again, “Why are you here?” and then, softer, “Why did you leave?”  
  
Flailing a hand, Rodney said, “I told you, I’m getting you to the ball, and why I left doesn’t _matter_ , it’s never mattered,” and there was a rule about lying – highly frowned upon - but there wasn’t one that said he had to tell the truth.  
  
John shifted on his feet awkwardly.  
  
Neither of them were very good with expressing their feelings. Rodney, because he’d never really had to before, and John because he’d pretty much been born emotionally stunted. Rodney stared at him, into his eyes, willing John to understand and to let it go and to trust him.  
  
“Three years,” John said, so low Rodney almost missed it.  
  
He bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he offered, because he really was, even though he hadn’t had much of a choice at the time.  
  
And then John tore his gaze away and cleared his throat and when he looked back at Rodney, his smile almost reached his eyes.  
  
It was enough. And probably all Rodney deserved. “Okay,” Rodney said, then louder, “Okay,” and rocked back on his heels.  
  
*  
  
John was in tattered black, a bruise cresting his cheek, and Rodney had to force himself not to palm it, not to ease the hurt with a flick of his thumb, because he knew some things just couldn’t be fixed with magic.  
  
*  
  
It wasn’t forgiveness. But then, John didn’t really understand. Probably wouldn’t forgive him, even if he _did_. Although that wasn’t being very fair to John, Rodney conceded to himself, and if he could do this, could set things right, maybe everything would work out the way they were supposed to.  
  
“So. The ball,” John started, staring down at his shoes, then stopped and cocked his head. He gazed up at Rodney under lowered lashes - didn’t he know how that _looked_? - and asked, “How did you know I was locked in the cellar, anyway?”  
  
Rodney flushed and ducked and rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Actually, I’m uh. Well, you see, I get this tickle in the back of my, um, throat when you’re, you know, or I sneeze and. I’m your fairy godfather.”  
  
John froze. “You’re joking.”  
  
“No,” he said. “No, I’m not, I’m your fairy godfather and I don’t want to talk about it. Now, are you ready?”  
  
“No,” John bit out, jaw tight, and Rodney thought, _great_. Great, he was using his _disappointingly hurt_ eyes, dark and accusatory.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” he countered, and he could force him if he needed to. He could stuff him into a carriage and lock it and _make_ him go.  
  
“I don’t want to go.”  
  
“Of course you don’t,” Rodney groused, slamming a hand against the cellar door, dust wafting up like fine glitter. It swung open with barely a protesting creak. “Of course you can’t see the potential of this. Of course you don’t care, and would let,” he waved an impatient hand, “Ladon or, god forbid, _Cowen_ get all the prestige, hell, the freaking _pleasure_ of Princess Elizabeth, and seriously? Seriously, you don’t even want to try? On the off possibility that you could rule an entire kingdom—”  
  
“Consorts don’t really rule, do they?”  
  
“Are you mentally imbalanced? Did your mother drop you on your head—”  
  
“Hey!” John sputtered, indignant, and Rodney immediately capitulated with a contrite, “Right, low blow, sorry, but _still_. This is what’s called a _defining moment_ , John—”  
  
“Jesus, fine.” He shoved a hand through his hair, blatantly exasperated. “I’ll go, all right?”  
  
“All right,” Rodney huffed, and they stood there not looking at each other and shuffling their feet and, not for the first time, Rodney wondered why the hell the Guild hadn’t pulled him off John’s case _years_ ago.  
  
“Now what?” John asked finally.  
  
Rodney sighed. “Well, you can’t go looking like that,” he said, and with a practiced flick, he palmed his magic wand.  
  
“Is that. Is that _sparkly_?” John blurted out, and all of a sudden it was like old times. It was Rodney surprising John, and John acting half-impressed and half damn amused at his expense.  
  
Rodney tipped his nose up, sniffed. “It’s regulation.”  
  
John hmmm’d and eyed Rodney speculatively, craning his neck to see his back. “Do you have wings?”  
  
“Maybe,” Rodney hedged. And maybe he’d never let John see them, because they were gossamer and shimmery and embarrassing as hell.  
  
John’s stomach growled. He covered his teeth with his lips and pressed them together briefly, then quirked his eyebrows and asked, “Can you conjure me a sandwich?”  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes. “I could, but why don’t we stick with solving the problem at hand, eh?”  
  
“But I haven’t had dinner,” John pouted, and Christ.   
  
Rodney couldn’t decide if he was stuck in the middle of a nightmare or a dream.  
  
*  
  
There were approximately two-hundred and fifty-seven rules Rodney was supposed to follow, according to the Guild, and most of them were stupid.   
  
Rule number one hundred and seventy-five - _make sure your appearance is always neat and fit, and that your wings shine at maximum potential!_ – was an asinine waste of valuable time, for instance.  
  
Rule number four, on the other hand – _never fall in love with your charge_ – was just good common sense.  
  
*  
  
 **V**  
  
There had been a large part of John that’d been relieved at being unequivocally banned from attending the ball, at being locked in the cellar after throwing a monumental fit – his father’s clothes were ruined and that _hurt_ – because he seriously hadn’t been looking forward to the crowds of fawning subjects and the dancing and the inane chatter.   
  
Then Rodney had suddenly appeared, standing above him with his arms crossed over his chest, chin tilted up, lopsided mouth pulled into a scowl, and John thought briefly that he was going completely insane. But while all the facts pointed to Rodney being a product of his hideously pathetic childhood - something he’d created out of thin air and the power of his mind; born of loneliness and wishful thinking – he’d looked so very real. He’d evolved from a slightly pudgy teenager to a spare, lanky young man, hair curling over his eyes, hands wide, breadth of his shoulders hinting at something solid.   
  
He’d even _felt_ real. His hand had been warm around John’s arm, pulling him to his feet. And he smelled like apple pie and cinnamon and something inside of John cracked open, burned under his skin. It was like anger and pain, but it wasn’t. Not really.  
  
In the kitchen, Rodney grumbled to himself, expression tight and thoughtful, and he stared intently at Mr. Fluffy while John ate a turkey sandwich.  
  
Mr. Fluffy stared back.  
  
It was a little weird, actually.   
  
Then Rodney snapped, “Oh, _fine_ ,” and drew out his wand again.  
  
“Are you talking to Mr. Fluffy?” John asked, head cocked.  
  
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call him _Mr. Fluffy_ ,” Rodney said scathingly. He circled his wand in the air, little sparkles chasing the tip.  
  
“Hey, _I_ didn’t name him,” John protested, and Rodney waved a dismissive hand, said, “Well, either way, he seems to like you,” and then tapped his wand on Mr. Fluffy’s head.  
  
John was a little fuzzy on the details of what happened next, but when the shimmering smoke cleared, there was a large, very tall, well-muscled man standing where Mr. Fluffy used to be. He had dreadlocks and was wearing an awful lot of leather and he grunted, sort of in the back of his throat, a cut off Mr. Fluffy meow.  
  
John’s eyes went wide. “Whoa.”  
  
*  
  
Mr. Fluffy was just the beginning, it seemed, and in the backyard, the face of a bent sunflower, petals elongating and curving inward and growing to the size of a phaeton, solidified into a carriage, Rodney’s magic whirling in chaotic glittering stars.  
  
Buttercup, long nose hanging over the stable’s half-door, watching curiously as Rodney raised his arms like a symphonic conductor, got hit between the eyes with a passing flutter, and suddenly she was much, much smaller and finer and _human_.  
  
And then two fat, innocent toads spun into sleek, matched black stallions, strapped to the front of the sunflower carriage, and Buttercup approached with her same smooth gait, greeting Mr. Fluffy fondly with a touch of her forehead to his, and everyone turned to look at John.  
  
“What?” he asked, fighting the urge to back warily away.  
  
Rodney just hefted his wand and smiled.  
  
*  
  
The collar was too tight and his feet felt pinched and his face itched under the half-mask and he grumbled as much to Rodney.  
  
Rodney pushed him into the carriage with Mr. Fluffy – John really had to think of another name for him, like Kyle or George or Norman – and said, sounding slightly affronted and mostly harassed, “It’s perfect. I don’t make mistakes.”  
  
“But I can’t dance,” John complained, hands curling over the edges of the door.  
  
“Just stand there and bob your head and smile, for god’s sake, and they’ll fall all over you,” Rodney snapped, pressing John back with the flat of his hand against his chest.  
  
John just held on tighter, leaning forward and growling in Rodney’s face, “Why’s this so damn important, anyway?”  
  
Rodney stared up at him, blue eyes clouding and then blinking clear. “Because.”  
  
“Because _why_?” John persisted mulishly.  
  
Tight-lipped and flushed and blatantly unhappy, Rodney replied, “Because this is the way it’s written.”  
  
*  
  
 **VI**  
  
In human years, Rodney was three-hundred and fifty-four.  
  
Fairies counted by lifetimes, though – five, including the little girl who’d died at twelve - and John’s was the only one that ever truly mattered.  
  
*  
  
“I know what you’re thinking,” Rodney told the woman on the bench beside him, her nimble fingers lightly clutching the reins. John had called her Buttercup, which was as much of a misnomer as Mr. Fluffy, really. She was petite and dark-eyed and elegant, and she arched a telling brow towards him, a half-smile on her lips.  
  
“Do you?” she queried.  
  
“Yes, and you’re completely wrong,” he insisted, jabbing a finger at her. “More wrong than anyone in the entire history of being wrong.”  
  
Inclining her head, she said, “Perhaps,” amusement light in her tone.  
  
Rodney slumped back, body jostling loosely with the motion of the carriage over the path to the castle. “I’m not in love with him,” he grumbled, staring down at his pale hands. It was mostly the truth.  
  
*  
  
The only things Rodney disliked more than old people were babies.  
  
Old people talked about their teeth and hips and bowels and moved slower than spreading glue, and being in their company was pure torture. Babies wailed and stank and _couldn’t talk_ \- which was a double-edged sword, really, since one of Rodney’s favorite pastimes was talking, conversing, but everyone in general was much, much stupider than Rodney himself, and their attempts at keeping up with him were often painful and always annoying.  
  
He was okay with kids, since normally they were off exploring, causing trouble, and he mainly just collared them, kept an eye and ear out from far, far away.   
  
John, though. Rodney had been an avid John-watcher from the moment he’d been born.   
  
He’d been an exuberant baby, with a perpetual smile that might’ve been happiness, but could’ve just as easily been gas. Completely bald ‘til he was two, pointy ears sticking out oddly, John knew exactly how to use his ready grin and pretty eyes to his advantage. For years, John wielded the sort of edge-of-flirtatious behavior that normally disgusted him, but Rodney couldn’t help but be charmed beyond all possible reason.  
  
And then his mother had died, and John had lost the light in his eyes that’d made him _John_ , and that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to rebel, fight back, _stand out_. The utter complacency made Rodney physically ache. So he meddled.   
  
For John’s own good, of course, but he wasn’t going to lie and say he hadn’t enjoyed the explosions and the messes and the general childish mayhem.   
  
He’d enjoyed it a little too much, in fact. So much that he’d started to lose himself, forget his roots, and on the day he’d actually jumped into the icy river, disregarding his own well-being, struggling with John’s limp body towards the embankment, he knew he’d gone too far. Magic. He was _magic_ , and he was five lifetimes old, and he had to stop pretending he was normal, and that John could stay with him forever.  
  
Rodney wasn’t in love with him, no, but it was probably a near thing.  
  
*  
  
The forest between the village and the palace was dark, even though the sun hadn’t fully set. The lush summer canopy blocked the sky, trees arching over the well-worn path, and Rodney was as silent as Buttercup when the leaves broke ahead of them, the subtle purples and blues and brighter pinks reflecting off towering glass spires.  
  
*  
  
 **VII**  
  
John had never traveled through the forest before, and the castle was much bigger than he ever could have imagined, dwarfing the massive oaks, stars mingling with the sharp towers as the sky steadily darkened. It was impressive, imposing, as he jumped down from the carriage. The steps lit up under his feet, though, a cold blue, and that was pretty cool.  
  
Just outside the massive doors, Rodney caught his arm. He was flanked by Buttercup and Mr. Fluffy, and he looked exactly how he had when he’d disappeared, expression tight and serious, eyes wary.   
  
John’s heart tripped and he twisted his wrist to grip Rodney’s, palm to the back of his hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he demanded in a rush.  
  
“No,” Rodney shook his head, “no, I. I’ll be here. Watching. Just.” He breathed out heavily, and then there was a crooked smile on his face, almost wry. “You’ve got until midnight, all right? Everything will be perfect ‘til midnight.”  
  
John didn’t remember letting him go, but Rodney was gone between one blink and the next, leaving Mr. Fluffy looming protectively beside him and Buttercup standing serenely by the sunflower carriage, one hand resting on one of the blacks’ flanks.  
  
“Come on, Sheppard,” Mr. Fluffy said gruffly, pushing the door in and ushering him through, warm hand on the center of his back.  
  
More steps led up to the main ballroom. The railing, weirdly ornate shapes carved into its metal skin, glowed brighter as he brushed against it, then brighter still when his fingers curled around it, and he stopped mid-step, fascinated.   
  
At a twittering laugh, he glanced up, catching the eyes of girl who looked suspiciously like Davy’s cousin Katie, a pink mask held up over her face. She wiggled her fingers in an approximation of a wave, and he guessed his costume hid his identity about as well as Katie’s hid hers. He nodded at her, noting a young man at her elbow, and then ambled along the edge of the throng, conscious of Mr. Fluffy’s hulking form following close behind.  
  
It wasn’t really John’s scene. The music was light and frothy, formal four-step, and he settled against the wall halfway into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.  
  
He spotted Carson, an uncomfortable grimace on his mouth, stiffly clasping an enthusiastic blonde as she waltzed him around the dance floor. Davy was standing by the buffet, fingers clutching a full goblet, mixed company seemingly hanging onto his every word. Which was a little strange, given that Davy mainly talked about his gardens, and John thought plants and flowers were kind of dull.  
  
Elizabeth was up on a dais, seated beside her parents, her entire face frozen in polite boredom. She looked pretty; he’d never seen her in a dress before. And hair ribbons. And jeweled barrettes, bands of gold roped around her throat, fingers heavy with gems.   
  
As if sensing his scrutiny, she jerked her head up, scanning the crowd. When she found him, a smile spread across her mouth, eyes lighting up.  
  
He moved closer, because it was Elizabeth, and she’d asked him to come. He had to at least say hi, right?   
  
She rose to her feet, skirts drawn over one arm as she hurried down the steps towards him. “You came,” she said.  
  
“You asked,” he replied, shrugging. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were on them, and he belated realized he should’ve greeted her properly, bowing over her hand, but she waved off formalities and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.  
  
Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd, and he held himself tense against her, slightly bewildered by the overt affection. They hadn’t done that before. John really wasn’t big on touching, either. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulders and pulled away.  
  
She was still grinning, though, and held out her hand. “Would you care to dance?”  
  
*  
  
It was tradition, Elizabeth said, to have the ruling heir choose her husband among the kingdom when there were other siblings – in her case, younger twin sisters – to make foreign alliances. So. That rumor had apparently been true.  
  
“Good luck with that,” John drawled, and Elizabeth cocked her head, a funny gleam in her eyes, and suddenly everything clicked. “Oh. _Me_?”  
  
“We like each other, John,” she offered reasonably, then teased, “And we’ve already made a public spectacle.”  
  
“But.” It sounded slightly _wrong_ , even though it made a certain amount of sense. What else was he going to do with his life? “Okay, yeah,” he said, and shrugged. Whatever.  
  
*  
  
When the clock first struck midnight, John jerked away from Elizabeth with a soft curse.   
  
“John?” Elizabeth asked, grasping his sleeve.  
  
“I’ve gotta go.” He flashed her a grin. “This was fun,” he added, and he really meant it. The whole night felt off, but it’d been good to see her, talk to her. Then he squeezed her hand as it dropped away and started for the door, pushing his way through the crowd along the edge of the dance floor.  
  
“John, wait,” she called after him.  
  
Time was winding down, though, and he barely made it past the door before he was back in his father’s old clothes, ripped and frayed. Ahead of him, Buttercup was stamping impatiently, the sunflower flattened under her hooves. The fat toads had already hopped away.  
  
Well. At least he wouldn’t have to walk.

 

*

  
**VIII**  
  
Rodney hadn’t actually been lying to John all those years ago, though he obviously hadn’t been entirely truthful, either. He wasn’t imaginary. And he was, technically, from a place called Canada. In another realm. And, as with all fairy realms, it was rather cold and filled with polite, tolerant, magical beings.  
  
Rodney was really good at his job, so the Guild overlooked his blatant _im_ politeness and tendency to make other fairies cry.  
  
*  
  
Rodney knew how these things worked. His job was done, for the most part, and he could relax and watch the rest of John’s life from a distance. That was the plan, at least, and he was contemplating drowning his misery in a scalding hot bath when his doorbell rang.  
  
Choosing to ignore it, he shrugged off his clothes, pulled on a bathrobe, and then the bell rang again. And again. And then several times in rapid succession.   
  
He stomped down the hallway and jerked open the door. “Oh my god, wha—?” Rodney cut off, blinking. “Well, this is just _great_.”  
  
“Nice to see you, too, McKay.”  
  
Rodney yanked on his terrycloth belt, tightening it more securely around his waist. “Seriously, Kavanagh. Get out.”  
  
Kavanagh, ponytail swinging and expression obnoxiously cheery, said, “The Guild isn’t happy, McKay. Apparently, you left a few details unfinished.”   
  
He shoved a scroll at him, and Rodney rolled his eyes and slipped off the silver ribbon, scanning the parchment with growing irritation. “Mr. Fluffy and Buttercup? Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Left ‘em yearning.”  
  
Rule number one-hundred and three - _All categorically non-evil participants must be satisfied with any magical performance_.  
  
Although using animals in fairy godparent spells was standard procedure, permanent transformations weren’t the norm – most animals were glad to shed their temporary forms after discovering that the whole human race was batshit crazy – but approval papers had apparently already been stamped by the High Guild Council.  
  
He knew Kavanagh, the glorified errand boy, was taking great pleasure in his unhappiness. They had a _word_ for fairies like him, but they weren’t allowed to say it out loud.   
  
“Is that all?” Rodney growled.  
  
“It’s enough,” Kavanagh said slyly, and Rodney narrowed his eyes.   
  
Kavanagh made his skin crawl.  
  
*  
  
Mr. Fluffy was waiting by the stable door, sitting on his haunches, head cocked, and Rodney crossed his arms and glared. “So, you’ve lodged a formal complaint.”  
  
The tomcat just stared up at him unblinkingly.  
  
“God, you’re a pain in my ass,” Rodney snapped, then flicked out his wand.  
  
*  
  
When he’d finished with Buttercup, wings fluttering in irritation – they were gigantic and whisper-light and he hadn’t bothered hiding them, since he had no intentions of seeing John and making a fool of himself – he slid his wand away and growled, “Are you both happy now?”  
  
Buttercup smiled indulgently and pressed her forehead to his, hands curled over his biceps, and Mr. Fluffy bared his teeth at him. Rodney took that was a yes.  
  
And then a low-pitched voice said, “My, my. That was certainly a neat trick.”  
  
“Oh, crap.” Rodney grimaced, turning to find Kolya just inside the garden, staring at him speculatively. His two oafish sons were predictably wide-eyed and drooling over Buttercup and his wings, respectively.  
  
Policy was iffy about accidental revealings. On the one hand, no one but the charge was ever supposed to know the truth. But then there were some acceptable exceptions – Mr. Fluffy and Buttercup cases in point – and Rodney was never, under any circumstances, supposed to actually cause a human _harm_.  
  
Kolya was arguably human, though, and fairies were definitely allowed to defend themselves whenever it became necessary, but just exactly _how_ gave Rodney pause. And in that moment of indecision, Kolya strode forward and grabbed one of his splendidly delicate wings, and Rodney was effectively pinned in place. Damn it.  
  
The grip was strong, but he didn’t feel pain yet so much as pressure, a dull ache that seized up his entire back, rendering him nearly immobile, his magic wand a useless lump in his pocket. Rodney scowled and shifted slightly on his feet and tried to stamp down the panic that was steadily crawling up his throat, and he hoped to hell his terrified glare towards Mr. Fluffy would stem the cat-turned-mountain man’s clear compulsion to jump Kolya, because the subsequent _ripping_ and _irreparable damage_ and, most importantly, _burning pain_ would be more than he thought he could handle in a manly fashion. He could defuse this without any violence. He was sure of it.  
  
“What now?” Ladon asked, dark hair flopping stupidly over his forehead. “Do we get wishes?”  
  
“I’m not a genie, you moron,” Rodney bit out tightly.  
  
“But we caught you,” Cowen pointed out unhelpfully. “Don’t we at least get your treasure?”  
  
“For the love of god, I’m not a _leprechaun_ , either.” Rodney was frankly amazed John had lasted so long in the same house as them with their ridiculously tiny brains. “Will you people get your myths straight? I’m a fairy. Say it with me, now. Fair-y. I can’t do anything for you.”  
  
“For your sake,” Kolya said evenly, “I hope that is not true.”  
  
*  
  
 **IX**  
  
When John thought about marrying and settling down, he pictured it being way into the future. Way, way into the future. A future possibly filled with flying machines and horseless carriages, and where technology trumped magic by dint of being more accessible to the common man. Which was why his current wedding day seemed so completely surreal.  
  
It wasn’t _bad_ , exactly, but he thought maybe he was having a panic attack. He’d never had one before, but he was having trouble breathing and his chest felt tight and little black spots were spinning in front of his eyes.  
  
Elizabeth hadn’t given him much of a chance to change his mind, and when he’d woken up that morning in an ostentatiously large guest bedroom at the palace, the velvet black evening wear Rodney’d magicked for him was hanging neatly on the closet door, the polished leather shoes lined up against the wall.   
  
So. He was getting married.  
  
Right.  
  
And then a little man popped out of nothing in front of him, glasses perched on the end of his nose, hair tufting up in every direction. He blinked owlishly at John, then said, voice thickly accented, “This is possibly very worrisome.”  
  
*  
  
The little man had enormous pale-blue wings and hovered in the middle of the air with his legs crossed, staring down at John with a half-puzzled, half-concerned expression.   
  
“So you are John,” he said finally, thoughtfully, carefully, and then added, “If you are ready, you must fight for what you want,” and then he pulled out a magic wand.  
  
*  
  
 _Rodney_ , John thought desperately. Something had happened to Rodney, and he wasn’t prepared for the way his stomach bottomed out and the way his throat closed up, but when he blinked into the little man’s clear-set eyes, caught the serious, unwavering line of his lips, noted the firm, even grip on his wand, his body leveled out into cold calm.  
  
Whatever had happened, John was going to make it better.  
  
*  
  
There was no sunflower carriage, but Radek – not technically a fairy, he’d said, but something called a sprite – slipped past oblivious guards and into the royal stables, making off with Elizabeth’s massive gray. When John swung up onto his back, the stallion was more antsy than wary, pawing at the earth to run.   
  
Despite being dead noon, the sun high and bright, the path into the forest was darker than it’d seemed before, the trees denser, eerily absorbing sounds, and Radek lit the way with a swish of his tiny wand. Sparkling bubbles, pinpricks of light littered the brush along the edges, traveling on forever, illuminating just enough for the gray to avoid stumbling.   
  
“Is this some kind of test?” John asked Radek, eyes narrowed in suspicion, because the ‘Lantean forest wasn’t magical, normally, but it was currently layered with something John could practically taste.   
  
Radek cocked his head at him and replied cryptically, “Only if you wish it to be.” And then he muttered a few words, thick and foreign, and slapped the gray’s flank, spurring him into a wild gallop.  
  
John was pretty sure the little sprite wasn’t following him into the dark, either, and a little ball of dread settled low in his belly.  
  
*  
  
The sparkles stopped at a split in the path that hadn’t been there before, and John pulled up short, a curse at his lips. Both ways were dark, leaves heavily arching, and he fished a coin out of his pocket, rubbing it thoughtfully between his fingers.  
  
 _Heads to the left, tails to the right_ , he thought, flicking it into the air and catching it in a practiced motion. It came up tails, and then there was a rustle and someone stepped out of the black trees, tall and hulking and hairy.  
  
“Jesus,” John said, startled, hand to his chest. The gray danced backwards, and Mr. Fluffy, disturbingly human again, reached for his bridle. “Where did you come from?”  
  
He shrugged. “I was heading for the castle. The fairy’s in trouble.”  
  
“Yeah, there was this sprite that, um...” John trailed off lamely, realizing how totally strange his life had become. Animals-turned-human, fairies, sprites. He was just waiting for the evil sorcerer to show up.  
  
Mr. Fluffy cocked his head towards the left. “This way.”  
  
That way looked really, _really_ dark. “Are you sure?” John asked  
  
One of Mr. Fluffy’s eyebrows rose and he stared at him. His I’m-so-much-better-at-this-than-you stare that was eerily the same in both his man and cat forms.  
  
“Right,” John said, nodding. “Lead on.”  
  
*  
  
The brush got thicker and thicker, until the path was no wider than the gray’s belly, pricker-thorns scraping against John’s calves.  
  
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” he said. Was it getting darker?  
  
A crack of thunder echoed overhead, then lightning strobed through the trees, illuminating everything for a single moment in eerie stark light. He heard the rain before he felt it, sweeping over the forest, rolling behind a blast of wind that nearly knocked John off the horse. And then in seconds he was drenched, the water cold and hard, like tiny droplets of ice.  
  
He bent low over the gray’s neck, and the horse slowed to a walk, leaning forward into the wind. He couldn’t see much beyond sheets of pelting rain, barely making out Mr. Fluffy’s broad back ahead of him as he wordlessly led him off the path and into the arguable shelter of trees. They didn’t actually do much, the drops slicing viciously through the dark green leaves, but there was a house.  
  
A small house, with a wide, rickety porch – and John was sure it hadn’t been there before. No one lived in the forest.   
  
But there was a small white-washed house, right _there_ , and on the porch there was a man, lounging against the railing, grinning at them.  
  
His grin wasn’t exactly nice.   
  
The gray spotted respite from the rain and went for it without any urging from John, and Mr. Fluffy bounded up the three steps and shook out his hair. John slid off the horse’s back and, despite the not-very-nice grin, he was grateful for the cover. On the porch, the howling wind was muffled, and the rain was a muted waterfall.  
  
“Hi, there,” John drawled, hands on his hips.  
  
The man was all in green, long hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and he nodded at John. “Take a seat,” he said, gesturing towards a small table, something hot steaming out of fine little cups, “this may take a while.”  
  
*  
  
Tea. The man – he hadn’t said his name – poured them tea. Mr. Fluffy had his knees nearly touching his chest, bent in half at the low table, and John wasn’t much better off, legs folded up uncomfortably.  
  
“You’ll want to wait out the rain, of course,” he told them, his grin having morphed into a superior smirk. He dipped a honeyed spoon into John’s cup.  
  
John would’ve protested, except the sounds of the battering weather were actually soothing, a steady rush, a roar of white-noise that made John feel vague and slow. He stirred his tea rhythmically, blinking absently down at the swirl of light amber.   
  
There was something he was supposed to do. He was sure of it.  
  
“We can’t,” he said.  
  
“Oh, you can.” The man shook his head, ponytail swishing back and forth, pushing a plate of sugar cookies towards him. “You’d never find your way. You’d be blind three feet out.”  
  
It was a reasonable argument. And the cookies were really good.  
  
“These cookies are good,” Mr. Fluffy said gruffly. He had crumbs all over his face, and he lifted a hand to swipe them off. A big, square-fingered hand, and that seemed wrong.  
  
Something was wrong. Mr. Fluffy was a cat, wasn’t he?  
  
“This is wrong,” John said out loud, and his voice sounded hollow and clipped against the backdrop of rain.  
  
“Everything’s fine. Trust me,” the man said, and two dark shadows appeared behind his back, nearly translucent, arching high in graceful, sweeping curves.  
  
Wings. Fairy wings or sprite wings, although these weren’t fluttering like a butterfly, like Radek’s, weren’t gorgeous and delicate, but ragged at the edges and dark green like torn leaves.  
  
John’s eyelids grew heavy, the porch was warm and humid, and beside him Mr. Fluffy let out a massive yawn.  
  
They couldn’t leave until the rain stopped, anyway.  
  
*  
  
 **X**  
  
Fairies didn’t count time the same as humans. Hours or days were spent in the blink of an eye, the snap of a finger, and though he was _bored_ , Rodney supposed it could’ve been worse.  
  
*  
  
Kolya did everything exactly right. His wand was gone, splintered in pieces, and his wings were spread, pinioned to the wall, aching with a pain so constant he could hardly remember a time when they _hadn’t_ throbbed, hadn’t been held so perfectly stiff and still. It was a conscious effort to keep them out, because the sharp pins could so easily rip through the fine, sensitive skin.  
  
What he hadn’t counted on, though, was that John would need him, and that he wouldn’t get any notification of it either. He didn’t even realize John had disappeared until he’d overheard The Morons talking about it, days after his capture.   
  
Although Rodney _had_ been left in a musty attic, which triggered the onslaught of his many unfortunate allergies, and it was nearly impossible to sort out the true throat-tickles from his John-is-in-trouble alarms.   
  
He sneezed, dust motes spinning back up into his face to make him sneeze again, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to not shift his shoulders. When he opened them again, Radek was hovering in front of him, wings dwarfing his little body.   
  
“Took you long enough,” Rodney growled.  
  
Radek grinned at him. “I feel I must point out that I am not your minion.”  
  
He wasn’t, actually, which had been a gross mistake, Rodney felt, on the Guild’s part. “Fine, whatever, just get me out of here, will you?”  
  
“Hmmm.” Radek’s mouth fell into a speculative frown, taking in the immobile wings, the pile of kindling that had been at one point a very fine – though, okay, _sparkly_ \- wand. “This looks professional.”  
  
“Evil fairy professional, _yes_ ,” Rodney ground out, because with the anticipation of actually being able to move, his entire body decided to vibrate with previously suppressed acute pain. “Know anyone who wants me dead?”  
  
Radek gazed at him silently over the rims of his glasses.  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes.   
  
Then Radek heaved a sigh and said, “You know I cannot help you.”  
  
“What? Are you—? Seriously, _what_?” Rodney spluttered, squirming slightly, and ow, ow, _ow_ , that _hurt_. He glared at Radek. “Get me out of here.”  
  
“No,” Radek said, and he sounded honestly regretful.  
  
The tiny sprite bastard.  
  
Rodney huffed out an irritated breath. “Then find someone who _can_.”  
  
*  
  
Buttercup paused on the threshold of the attic, still and wary. “Rodney,” she said, inclining her head.  
  
“Oh, good, you brought the horse,” Rodney snapped at Radek, who smiled serenely and said, “She is human.”  
  
“But she’s got to _pry them out_. Without, may I add, ripping me to shreds.” Buttercup had narrow hands, small-boned wrists and slim arms, and the metal spikes were deeply imbedded in the wood.   
  
“I am strong, Rodney,” she said, moving towards him, “and I will try my best not to hurt you.”  
  
“Yes, well,” he went on weakly, “ _try_ isn’t exactly reassuring, is it?” But he didn’t have much of a choice, really, since Radek wasn’t a _real_ fairy, and his little sprite genes couldn’t do much more than glitter at him prettily, or play silly mind-tricks on The Morons and Kolya.  
  
Buttercup had a light touch, fingers soothing along the sore membrane, but the pins were lodged deep, the steel strong, and Rodney clasped Radek’s hand hard as she worked one out, his teeth clenched and tears seeping helplessly out of the corners of his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, his left wing was free, and he curled it towards his body, inspecting the damage with rapid, panicked breaths. There was a tear, just an inch long, the tiny veins webbing the thin skin angry and thick as his magic frantically worked to weave it closed. The wound would heal quickly, he knew, but he’d have the scar, a gathered ridge of imperfection stark against the spun gossamer, forever.  
  
*  
  
The second pin proved far more difficult to remove, and Buttercup’s fingers were red with effort when she finally pulled away, unsuccessful. “I fear I will not be able free you without making the tear worse,” she said, and Rodney babbled, “Okay, let’s not do that,” and Radek sighed.  
  
“There is no other way, Rodney,” he reminded him gently.   
  
And of course Rodney _knew_ that, but there was pain and then there was _pain_ , and Rodney didn’t think he could face that without passing out.  
  
Radek placed a hand on his shoulder. “You will be fine.”  
  
“Right.” Rodney tilted his chin up as Buttercup stepped behind him again. “Right, I’ll be. Fine, sure. No problem. What’s a little debilitating agony in the grand scheme—”  
  
“I sent John for you,” Radek cut in, and Rodney blustered, “You _what_?”  
  
“I sent John for you,” he repeated slowly, “and he has not shown up.”  
  
“Yes, because he’s _disappeared_ , and could be dead or dying when he should be _married_ by now and off having his happily ever after in the coolest castle ever made, and why the hell would you do—” Sharp and just shy of debilitating agony shot from his wing-bone all the way down his spine, making inconvenient stop-offs at every single nerve of his back, shoulders, arms, ribs, and he clutched at his knees, dry heaves hunching him forward until he registered the agitated fluttering out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“It is done,” Buttercup said, dropping the heavy pin onto the floorboards.  
  
“Oh my _god_ ,” Rodney gasped. “I _hate_ you.”  
  
*  
  
The pieces of his wand gave a valiant effort as he sifted his fingers through them morosely, glittering dust rising and popping into sparkling stars above his head. It was the first time he’d lost one, the first time he’d witnessed the dying embers, watched the magic swell into vapor and disperse back into the world, leaving the wood useless ash.  
  
*  
  
The three of them slipped down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and almost made it outside before The Morons showed up to block their way, munching on apples and giving them dim-witted, narrow looks, bobbing their gazes between Buttercup and Rodney and Radek with his enormous blue wings.  
  
“How did you—”  
  
“You will let us pass,” Radek said, waving his wand in front of Ladon.  
  
“Sure.” He shrugged, stepping aside.  
  
Cowen puffed his chest out, face bright red. “My father—”  
  
“Is waiting for you in his study. He will not want to be bothered with us.”  
  
“Of course not,” Cowen agreed with a huff. “He’s far too important.”  
  
“Yes, yes.” Radek nodded, eyes twinkling. “We are merely traveling circus performers.”  
  
“You’re just stupid circus performers,” Cowen repeated derisively.  
  
“Let’s go,” Rodney hissed, tugging on Radek’s arm. It was a neat trick, and Rodney was suitably jealous, but then, Radek couldn’t _conjure_ , could he? And he was useless in any sort of offensive – not that fairies regularly went to war or anything, but dragons weren’t unheard of.  
  
Neither were evil fairies, apparently.  
  
He just hoped they’d get to John in time.  
  
*  
  
 **XI**  
  
John dreamed of drowning. Of tumbling under muddy water with not enough air in his lungs and not enough strength in his arms to stroke towards the surface. He dreamed of desperate blue eyes and a lopsided scowl, a hand damp and hot on his wrist, and he came awake with a gasp and choking coughs, spilling up thick, sugary water onto the ground beside him.   
  
“What the hell?” he rasped, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest felt tight and sore and he shuddered, realizing he was completely wet and nestled in a pile of dying leaves, the trees arching high above him. “Mr. Fluffy?”  
  
“Sheppard.”  
  
John struggled into a sitting position and spotted Mr. Fluffy across from him, looking worn-down and pale, dark half-moons smudged under his eyes, panting in awkward, short breaths. “Where are we?” John asked, and the larger man shrugged.  
  
The gray was gone.  
  
Whatever path they’d been on before was no longer visible.  
  
He scanned the surround of pure, thick forest and then scanned it again, gaze settling on a man who nearly blended in with the layered shades of green.  
  
“So you’re awake,” he said, sneering. He was sitting on the crooked arm of a tree, leaning a shoulder along the trunk, one leg bent up, the other swinging idly.  
  
Mr. Fluffy growled under his breath.  
  
“What’s going on?” John demanded, and the man flicked out a wand, a beacon of light spiraling out of the tip to explode past the canopy above them.  
  
He said, “This isn’t about you.”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
“Or rather,” the man amended, tilting his head to the side, “it wouldn’t be about you if he hadn’t gotten loose.”  
  
John climbed to his feet, balling his hands into tight fists. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Kavanagh,” a voice thundered. “I should have known you were behind this.”  
  
“McKay,” Kavanagh drawled. “So good of you to join us.”  
  
*  
  
Rodney came stomping out of the trees, bedraggled and pissy with one completely gorgeous wing, bright and arched like an angel’s, the other limp, half-tucked against his side, and something tight broke inside of John and sort of... fluttered in his chest.  
  
He didn’t have to name it to know what it was.  
  
*  
  
Behind Rodney was Radek the sprite and a very human Buttercup. John waved.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rodney snapped at Kavanagh, arms over his chest. “Are you _deranged_? Do you honestly think the Guild—”  
  
“I don’t fall under the Guild’s jurisdiction, McKay,” Kavanagh said, making no move to climb down from his perch.   
  
“What—wait, why are you wearing _that_?” He flapped a hand, lip curled up in disgust. “Green? Are you a hippie environmentalist dryad, now?”  
  
“They have excellent benefits, McKay.”  
  
“They also hug trees, lick dirt and sing songs about _flowers_.”  
  
Kavanagh looked like has getting kind of angry. He straightened up from his slouch and narrowed his eyes, fingers white-knuckled on his wand, and it might’ve been John’s imagination, but he could have sworn the plants around them hadn’t been quite so... confining before.   
  
“Hey, Rodney,” John said, voice hushed, “now might be a good time to, you know, _do_ something.”  
  
“Right, um,” he spread his wing up and around them as they stepped back to avoid a thickening vine, slithering over a fallen tree limb like a snake, “my wand was destroyed.”  
  
John pressed his lips together, shifting closer to Rodney’s side, and wow. Wow, he hadn’t thought flowers could get that big, and he’d _definitely_ never seen one with teeth before. Davy would probably love it.  
  
“And here’s the thing,” Rodney continued, fidgeting back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I can’t fight him without it.”   
  
Radek was hovering nervously, nodding.  
  
John blinked. “Okay.”  
  
“So we’ve got a completely useless sprite—”  
  
“An impotent fairy,” Radek put in, dodging a vine that shot up from the ground, only to get thumped in the back by another, jostling him into Mr. Fluffy.  
  
Rodney shot him a speaking glare, then went on, ticking off his fingers, “An ex-cat, which, okay, could be marginally helpful, a mortal man, and a girl.”  
  
Buttercup smiled serenely. “I believe I am one your strengths.”  
  
“If Kavanagh was _also_ a girl, yes,” Rodney rolled his eyes, then snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Wait, wait, wait—you can use your feminine wiles on him!”  
  
She arched a brow, and Radek said, “This is why you are so often slapped.”  
  
“Oh fine, _you_ come up with a plan, then,” he groused.  
  
“Can’t you just use his wand?” Mr. Fluffy asked, gesturing towards Radek.  
  
“Yes, if I wanted to bedazzle him with slight-of-hand or shrink myself to the size of…” He trailed off, trading wide-eyed looks with Radek.  
  
“It just may work since—”  
  
“—he’s generally an imbecile, right, and—”  
  
“—would be hard pressed to find us, or even figure out what we have done.” Radek nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose, giving Rodney a small grin.  
  
“Radek,” Rodney straightened up, “if you’d do the honors.”  
  
*  
  
John’s first thought was: Cool! Followed shortly by: Awesome!  
  
His third thought was a sickening: Oh my god, giant _bugs_.  
  
*  
  
The ground was a soft, muddy black, clinging to their feet, and they huddled under the drooping cap-leaf of an enormous jack-in-the-pulpit, gripping the thick stem for leverage.  
  
John asked, “What now?” and, “That’s not a beetle, is it?” and, “So how likely do you think it is that we’d, uh, run into hungry meat-eating ladybugs?”  
  
Rodney stared at him blankly.  
  
“What?” he grumbled defensively. “They _swarm_.”   
  
*  
  
Little sinister sprouts of green burrowed out of the dirt all around them, and John stamped a few down with the heel of his boot, listening to their tiny squeals of pain with a thrill of satisfaction. Three down, four million or so to go.  
  
“All right, we’re going to need,” Rodney rolled his wrist in the air, “a moth or something.”  
  
John arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”  
  
“Yes,” Radek agreed. “A fly, perhaps.”  
  
John paled. He really hated bugs.  
  
Mr. Fluffy clasped his shoulder. “How about a cicada?” he asked, as a horrendous, skin-crawling buzz grew louder and louder.  
  
God. He really, _really_ hated bugs.  
  
*  
  
“Seriously, what’s with you and the bugs?” Rodney snapped at him when he balked at climbing aboard the iridescent shell. Radek was at its head, wand circling hypnotically as he droned, “You will fly us to the palace,” over and over again.  
  
“Um.” John swiped damp palms on his still-wet pants. He wanted to say ‘traumatic childhood accident,’ except Rodney would know that for a lie, and ‘they’re creepy and always look like they want to eat me’ just sounded pathetic and weird. He forced a shrug, then let Mr. Fluffy manhandle him up, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself by screaming and passing out.  
  
*  
  
Flying was great. Flying was _fantastic_ , and everything John had never knew he wanted – the freedom, the soaring speed, the almost fearful rush of adrenalin - but the bug was still totally creepy.  
  
*  
  
 **XII**  
  
It was disturbingly easy to reach the castle. Kavanagh was nowhere in sight, but Rodney didn’t think he’d given up. He was stupid, but he was also persistent and annoying.  
  
“What was that about, anyway,” John asked.  
  
“Professional jealousy, petty spite, who knows what goes on in that idiot’s mind,” Rodney huffed. “The Guild won’t let him get away with it, no matter that he’s taken up with a passel of overzealous wood nymphs.”  
  
“He will be banished, I am sure of it,” Radek added absently, then spun them up to normal size without any warning, leaving Rodney staggering as wind caught his injured wing.  
  
He trembled suddenly with an onslaught of residual fear and anger. Kavanagh had tried to kill him. “He tried to _kill_ me,” he announced stridently.  
  
Buttercup pressed her forehead to his and murmured, “You are safe now,” and Rodney closed his eyes, leaning into her. She smelled like sun-warmed grass.  
  
When she moved away, John hesitated in front of him, an arm stretched towards his wing-bone, hand hovering.  
  
“They’re, um.”  
  
Rodney braced himself for mocking. They were _shiny_ , after all; featherless and translucent pale pink.  
  
John grinned with half his mouth, slightly rueful, and his fingers curled up into a fist before dropping away.  
  
Rodney frowned. “What?”  
  
“Nothing.” He shook his head.  
  
“Right, well,” Rodney tipped his chin up, “I had a bath interrupted for this mess, so I’ll just,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, then disappeared.  
  
*  
  
He had to stand in front of the High Guild Council, explain what happened in painful detail, and then listen to them list all the reasons why they _couldn’t_ issue him a new wand – rule number seven: _wands are a privilege, not a right_ ; which was quite possibly the most asinine thing Rodney had ever heard, because without a wand he couldn’t actually do _his job_ \- before giving him a new wand.  
  
They assured him something would be done about Kavanagh – hopefully something painful, although he suspected they’d merely fleece him of his wand and let the nymphs deal with his petulant temper.   
  
Afterwards, Samantha, blonde and pink-cheeked, caught his arm and grimaced and asked, “Look, are you okay?”  
  
“Yes,” he said, even though he was really, really bad at lying.  
  
*  
  
Hours later, Rodney’s eyes started watering, and something in the back of his nose tickled out a dry sneeze.  
  
He cursed under his breath, slammed the book he’d been reading shut, and found John sitting on the lip of the highest ridge over the river as it turned sharply around the castle, legs swinging.  
  
“What is _wrong_ with you?” Rodney demanded.  
  
“Hi, Rodney.” John grinned up at him, eyes lit.  
  
“Do you have a death wish? Because if you jumped from here, I don’t think I could save you.” That was sort of a half-truth, though. He’d maybe break an arm or something if he banged the side, but Rodney would catch him before he hit bottom.  
  
John sighed. “I’m not going to jump.”  
  
“And shouldn’t you be married by now?”  
  
“I—”  
  
“The excitement’s supposed to be over. You’re apparently due some happiness here, and I’m due years and years of soothing calm.” Rodney wasn’t dreading it, either. Soothing calm was exactly what he needed after raising John.  
  
“Aw, come on, Rodney. That’s _boring_. Radek said—”  
  
“You’re listening to Radek? He’s like,” he flapped a hand, “one of those little white birds that eat bugs off of hippos.”  
  
John cocked his head. “You know that’s more of an insult to yourself, right?”  
  
“What? I—Oh, funny, of course, can we please stay on _topic_?”  
  
“Rodney—”  
  
“Because I.” Rodney snapped his mouth closed, looking down at John with his weird, flippy hair and disarming grin, and the hardest part of being with John, really, was always having to leave him.  
  
John reached out a hand. “Help me up?”  
  
With an impatient huff, Rodney wrapped both his hands around John’s and hauled him to his feet, then automatically started brushing him down, swiping gravely dust from the back of his pants.  
  
John’s eyes widened. “Um.”   
  
Rodney froze, dropping his hand from John’s ass. Seriously. His _ass_. “Sorry.”  
  
“No, it’s.” He stepped forward, curling fingers into Rodney’s shirt to stop him from backing away. “Rodney,” he said, and then he kissed him.  
  
*  
  
Rodney had only ever been kissed twice in his lifetimes.   
  
Once, Sam had given him a peck on the cheek. Rodney had touched his skin incredulously, bubbles of unexpected pleasure popping over his heart.  
  
Jonas – plodding, methodical Jonas – had studied him with interested eyes and cradled his head gently between his palms, and the press of lips had been cool and dry and oddly familiar.  
  
They were nothing like John’s.  
  
*  
  
John was slightly desperate, and Rodney was slightly stunned, and by the time he managed to get his act together and tangle his fingers into John’s hair, trying to tug him closer, John pulled away, hands still fisted in Rodney’s shirt.  
  
“Stay?” he asked, breathless.  
  
“I. I’m old,” Rodney said lamely.   
  
“You don’t look old,” John countered.  
  
Rodney grumbled, “I’m also slightly vain,” which wasn’t exactly the whole truth – although, yes, he’d prefer not to start losing his hair again, like that one time he’d aged himself past thirty on a whim – because _John_ was still young, and he’d pathetically wanted to hold onto that closeness, that impossible friendship they’d begun years before.  
  
John loosened his hold on Rodney, swiped the corner of his lips with his thumb, studied him with a soft, serious expression in his eyes.   
  
“Stay forever,” he clarified, as if Rodney’s words hadn’t meant anything, as if ‘I’m old’ hadn’t really meant ‘When you die, I’m still going to be old.’  
  
“John,” Rodney said helplessly, fingers falling from his hair, curling loosely around his nape.  
  
John half-smiled again. The broken, rueful one, the one that said he wanted what he couldn’t have. “This is another one of those defining moments, isn’t it?”  
  
Rodney swallowed hard. “I think so.”  
  
John turned to look out over the ravine, the churning river that carved its way through the valley. To their right, the castle loomed sharp and spare against the softly golden sky.  
  
*  
  
 **XIII**  
  
Once, there was a man.  
  
A man with messy dark hair and a loose grin, who lived with a hairy giant named Mr. Fluffy and a small, graceful woman named Buttercup.  
  
Their modest house – a parting gift from Radek, who’d joyfully convinced Kolya he wanted to move far, far away – sat on the edge of a village that was shadowed by the kingdom’s royal palace, a massive castle with glass spires and sharp metal angles and blue lights that glowed bright whenever John pressed his palms to them.  
  
Elizabeth – Queen now, with three little heirs that hung onto his every word – loved John, in her own way. But John had found that he couldn’t really love Elizabeth in any way that mattered.   
  
He never married.  
  
His grin was so easy it rarely ever meant anything, and he slouched like it was going out of style and Buttercup touched her forehead to his with both unspoken sympathy and devotion.  
  
One day, though, a stranger marched up his path, muttering under his breath, an overstuffed bag in his hand. He had broad shoulders and a receding hairline and a mouth that quivered on one side. He tipped his chin up when John answered his knock, blue eyes defiant and hopeful.  
  
“They kick you out?” John drawled, crossing his arms and leaning into the jamb, pretending that the breath hadn’t been knocked clean out of him, pretending that it hadn’t been _years_.  
  
Rodney’s gaze slipped over and past John’s shoulder. “I retired,” he offered.  
  
“You... retired.”  
  
“Look, I’m a fairy,” Rodney said with agitation. “I’ll probably live ten times as long as you, but there’s also a good chance I’ll die tomorrow of anaphylactic shock, so I figured...” He trailed off, jaw clenched.  
  
“You figured what?” John prompted.  
  
“I figured it— _this_ was worth it,” he finished, looking down at his hands, the tight grip on his cracked leather bag.  
  
“And it took you this long to realize that?” Years and years long, long enough for Mr. Fluffy to go through fifteen names and settle on Ronon for five months before reverting back to Mr. Fluffy again.   
  
“There’s actually a lot of red tape,” Rodney snapped. “It’s not like I could just hand in my wand and _quit_ , and we don’t register time the same way as you, anyway, so—”  
  
“Rodney, shut up,” John said, because he wasn’t going to shoot himself in the foot for spite, and something mellow was unrolling inside of him like happiness.   
  
He calmly extracted the bag from Rodney’s hand and dropped it just inside the door, and he smiled, slow, and pressed their foreheads together. And then he kissed him.  
  
*  
  
“So does this mean I can stay?” Rodney asked, breathless.  
  
John chuffed a laugh against his throat. “Yeah, Rodney. Yeah, you can stay.”


End file.
